Ego and Enmity

By J.G. King

Damen Petrakis and Ig Stormare loathe each other and lust after each other in equal measure, taking pains never to be in the same place at the same time. Unfortunately for them, they’ve been tasked by their respective bosses to successfully plan and execute a high-profile charity event without killing one another in the process. Damen thinks Ig is an arrogant and insufferable control-freak whose idea of a good time involves a rousing PowerPoint presentation. Ig believes Damen to be an unrepentant straight playboy who takes nothing seriously ever since a knee injury forced him out of professional baseball.

As the two men try to work together, they discover first impressions—and sometimes second and third ones—are not always accurate. Damen learns that Ig is still recovering from the death of his firefighter boyfriend, afraid to let people get close to him. Ig sees Damen struggling to earn his father’s approval after the crash and burn of his athletic hopes. Ig is surprised to learn that Damen is bisexual dealing with the rejection of his last boyfriend and a drinking problem, just as Damen is shocked to see the all-too-human emotions lurking beneath Ig’s charmless exterior.

But neither Damen nor Ig’s coping methods do them any favors. As the night of the charity ball looms closer, the two men must get over their egos and their enmity to have any hope of making it—and their relationship—a real success.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeanette Battista
• Release date: Sep 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005997328

Book preview

Ignatius Stormare enjoyed most things about being president of the Events division of Nyx Events. He worked with and reported to his best friend, Aden Nyxon, the CEO and founder of the company. He liked the work, he liked putting his obsessive, Type-A tendencies to use, and he liked the variety. There was, however, one thing he unequivocally loathed.

Damen Petrakis.

The hulking behemoth of a man was the head of Sales in the Sports division. Sports division was a separate arm of the company, focusing on executive retreats and sporting events. Damen had been hired temporarily by Aden’s wife, Athena, to see how he performed. Athena and Damen had been friends since childhood; when an injury cut short his baseball career, she’d offered him a job.

He’d performed surprisingly well. He also excelled at driving Ig up a wall, something Ig soon discovered after Damen was hired.

Ig was already on his second coffee refill of the day when Petrakis swanned into the office. He looked like he’d just rolled out of some poor woman’s bed, run his fingers through his thick dark hair, and tried to iron out the wrinkles in his shirt with nothing but his unwashed, sweaty palms on the cab ride over. His tie was askew, and he’d foregone a jacket.

Ig glanced down at his own impeccably pressed pants, vest, and neatly Windsor-knotted tie and then back at Damen’s disheveled attire. Good morning, Damen. He pointedly checked his watch. It was after nine.

Posh Spice, Damen rumbled, face dark as a thundercloud as he badged his way into his office.

Ig frowned at the dig at his accent. Rough night? he asked, unable to keep the needling edge from his voice.

Why? Looking for pointers? Petrakis gave him a dismissive leer as he shoved his door open and staggered through.

Sadly, no. Ig shook his head regretfully. Though I will keep you in mind the next time I wish to smell like the floorboards of a cab. Ig continued down the hall to his own office, determined not to let the man affect his mood.

In truth, Ig hadn’t expected Petrakis to last. He’d been shocked when Damen and his contacts throughout the world of major league baseball had led to market growth. Nyx Events had since run events for baseball and football teams, ESPN, as well as several high-profile athletes’ weddings. Athena had been pleased to have such a useful mammal on staff, so she’d hired him, and his talent for schmoozing, permanently.

Ig had rolled his eyes at Damen’s promotion, but Athena was the president of the Sports side of the company. It was her call. He found Damen to be smarmy, uncouth, and full of himself. Ig tried to keep his interactions with the man to a minimum, but—like today—he couldn’t avoid him altogether.

Ig had just settled into his chair when his assistant Paul stuck his elaborately styled head into Ig’s office. Morning, boss man.

Good morning, Paul. How was your evening? Ig didn’t glance up from the staffing spreadsheet he’d been adjusting.

Splendiferous, Paul said, a tablet clutched in hand. I tried that new sushi place, and it was amazing! He broke the word down into its component syllables. How ‘bout you?

Ig took a sip of his coffee. I worked late, went to the studio, and then headed home. His kendo training at the martial arts studio usually relaxed him, but he’d stayed up late reading financial reports for his briefing with Aden and Athena later that day. It had been after midnight by the time he’d made it to bed.

He looked up at Paul’s sigh. Can I be honest for a second?

Ig pursed his lips. Can I stop you?

No. Paul walked into the office and pushed the door half-closed. You know there is more to life than work, right?

Ig pulled himself up straight. Not everyone can be a social butterfly like you, Paul.

I wouldn’t call pub trivia super social there, boss. Paul shook his head in despair.

I’m quite happy with my life as it is, thank you, Ig said, focusing on sifting through his remaining unopened emails. And while I would like nothing more than to sit here and discuss my personal life with you all morning, I need you to prod Ellie to get me her projections for fourth quarter, please.

You’d rather gnaw your leg off like a coyote caught in a bear trap, don’t lie, his assistant said with a wry grin. It disappeared a moment later when his tablet pinged at him. I’ll get those projections for you asap. His eyes skimmed the screen as he read the message. Grant says there’s a hitch with Bryant Park. He asked if you could come have a look?

Certainly. Ig fetched his jacket and shrugged it on. He shot his cuffs. I’ll go have a word with him now. He slipped past Paul and said, Let me know when Aden arrives. I need a few minutes to speak with him before our meeting later.

I’ll text you as soon as he gets in, Paul said, matching pace with Ig as he walked purposefully down the hall.

Ig called it the author walk. One of his friends in PR shared the trick her author used to avoid getting roped into conversations while at conventions and the like: walk everywhere quickly, as if late to a crucial meeting. It helped to cultivate a serious, almost angry expression. Paul had told Ig that he scared the hell out of all the junior staffers when he stalked the halls like the freaking T-1000, but if it meant Ig could get from one meeting to the next without a lot of interruptions, he was determined to keep doing it.

As they neared Damen's office, his assistant, Chanel, called out to them. What’s the good word, gentlemen?

Paul sauntered over, smiling hugely. Just trying to convince the boss here that life exists outside of the office.

Ig bristled. He knew that. He just wasn’t keen on engaging with it. His routine was comfortable.

How is that going for you? Chanel asked, a canny smile stretching her plum-painted lips wide.

About as well as you expect.

Ig stopped to greet Damen’s assistant. Chanel was a statuesque black woman, stunningly attractive and insanely competent. Ig was amazed Damen hadn’t driven the woman into the arms of HR with his Neanderthal habits, but she appeared to tolerate him. If Ig hadn’t been so pleased with Paul’s job performance, he might have stolen Chanel for himself.

Good morning to you, Chanel. I trust you had a pleasant evening.

She sighed, dark brown eyes full of warmth and good humor. Depends on how you define pleasant. I had a date.

Ig schooled his features to neutrality at the mention of dating. I trust it was pleasant and he was a perfect gentleman? he asked politely. He hadn’t had a date in four years—longer even. Ig made sure to keep the focus on Chanel rather than risk questions he had no desire to answer about his personal life.

She laughed, sharing a commiserating glance with Paul. No to both. It was a waste of an evening. He tried to take pictures of my feet beneath the table the whole time. I finally had to have the waiter box the rest of my dinner and get out of there before my head wound up in his freezer.

I told you you’d get some weirdos if you wore those shoes in your profile picture, Paul commented.

Ig raised an eyebrow, but Damen exited his office and cut off anything he’d been inclined to say. Hey, Chanel, can you schedule a time to grab beers with that MMA guy—Chris Whatshisname—for me? He didn’t acknowledge Ig or Paul.

Chanel was already tapping at the keyboard, mouth set in a grim line. The snapping joy in her dark eyes retreated. Anything else you need? I went ahead and pulled the numbers for projections if you wanted to go over them.

Ig wouldn’t say Chanel looked unhappy, but she was no longer effervescent. She’d bottled herself up.

Damen waved away her offer. Nah, don’t bother with those. He turned to leave, then stopped. Hey, how’d the date go?

He tried to take pictures of her feet, Paul offered when Chanel didn’t answer right away. Ig knew his assistant hated awkward silences, and while it might annoy some people, Ig appreciated Paul’s desire for everyone to get along. He helped smooth over some of Ig’s terser moments.

What did I tell you about those shoes? Damen asked, pointing his finger at Chanel.

In fairness, I wasn’t listening, Chanel shot back tartly.

Ig edged away, the casual banter making him feel like an intrusion.

It’s why you should take my advice, Damen laughed, then turned to Ig. What do you think, Iggy?

Ig did his best to hide his wince at hearing that nickname. His chest felt hollow, a phantom ache like he’d been punched in the sternum. It’s Ig, he corrected, surprised out how normal he sounded. And I’m afraid I can’t comment on Chanel’s choice of footwear.

Damen grinned, showing his teeth. Ig bristled, waiting for the next verbal salvo. Come on, Monty Python, live a little. He raised and lowered his thick eyebrows suggestively. Can’t be a stuffed shirt all of the time!

Ig refused to take the bait as Damen stared at him with malice glinting in his amber eyes. Damen was trying to make him uncomfortable. Ig was used to it by now so that all he did was toss his head derisively. When it comes to dating, I believe discretion is the better part of valor.

A confused frown marred Damen’s handsome features. Good. Let the man wonder if he was a closet Dom or the like. Ig pulled his gaze from the man’s face and addressed Paul, I believe you mentioned something about Grant needing to speak with me? At Paul’s wide-eyed nod, he inclined his head in a farewell to both Chanel and Damen. Good day, all.

As he author-walked away with Paul struggling to catch up, Ig heard Chanel ask Damen, Why do you constantly pick at him?

Man needs to lighten up a little. Unclench before we have to send a team in to pull the stick out of his ass.

A sidelong glance at Paul told him that his assistant had heard the exchange as well. Ignoring the flush that heated the back of his neck, Ig walked faster.

Chapter Two

Damen watched Stormare leave, lean back straight as a steel rod. His lips sliding into a sneer before he could master his expression. His gaze slid lower, lingering on the tight mounds of Ig’s ass in the impeccably fitted pants as he walked away. Just because the man was an insufferable prick didn’t mean Damen couldn’t eye the merchandise Ig was sporting. Damen hadn’t been with a man in two years, but he could still appreciate excellent packaging even if the guy in question drove him up a wall.

Damen couldn’t explain what about Ignatius—and what a fucking pretentious set of syllables that was—bothered him so much. Everywhere Damen turned, there was Stormare, watching him, judging him, assessing him. And every time, Damen was sure he didn't measure up. Maybe it was Ig's expensively tailored three-piece suits—suits that highlighted the long, lean lines of his body. He wore a pale grey one today, some kind of subtle pattern woven into the fabric, and a dark green shirt that seemed to electrify the man's already bright green eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. His ash brown hair was combed back from his aristocratic face, highlighting the strong bones of his cheeks, jaw, and brow. Vastly different from Damen’s own dark looks, powerful bulk, and less-than-elegant way of dressing.

Ignatius Stormare was precisely the sort of man Damen’s father would have adored having for a son. Well bred. Well dressed. Intelligent. Focused. Successful in business.

All the things Damen wasn’t.

It hadn’t helped that Damen slid into work at quarter past nine that morning, still wearing the clothes he'd had on the day before. Ig had been near Paul's desk, so he had a front-row seat to Damen's walk of shame. He could feel Ig’s judgment heavy in his gaze. Damen refused to act ashamed though—he was well past the point of apologizing for who he was. So what if he'd picked up some random woman at a bar and they went back to her place for some consensual fun? It was nobody's business but Damen's who he decided to fuck.

Ordinarily, he would have run home to change, but Maddy? Abby? Whatshername lived closer to the office and Damen didn't like backtracking. Instead, he'd run his fingers through his thick dark hair to tame the bedhead and tried ironing out the wrinkles in his shirt with nothing but his hands on the cab ride over. His jacket was a lost cause, and he wasn’t sure when he lost his tie. He probably shouldn't have had so much to drink. Still, it had been a long time since he'd cut loose, and he might have talked an old baseball buddy into using Nyx Events for some charity shindig his wife was hosting. At the very least, he’d gotten a call scheduled.

He felt Chanel’s disapproving gaze settle on his back. What’d I do? he sighed. Turning his head to look at her, Damen was wholly unprepared for the expression of sorrowful disappointment on her face. He tried not to sulk at it.

You know what you did, Chanel said, pursing her lips. Ig’s a good man, and you keep poking at him. One day, he’s going to poke back, and you won’t like it.

Damen bit back a grin as his mind went somewhere filthy. He was bisexual—he wouldn’t mind a poke, but only if Stormare didn’t talk. He pokes at me pretty regularly, Damen answered instead. Chanel was his assistant. Where's your loyalty?

The look she gave him made him wonder if he shouldn’t have asked that question. Thankfully, Chanel chose not to answer. You're like a little boy who puts gum in a girl's hair because he can't tell her he likes her. She shook her head in despair.

Damen snorted. He did not like Ig. The man was hot, sure, but his personality had all the appeal of a rabid wolverine. I like Ig like I like Komodo dragons—way the hell over there.

Check yourself, Chanel said, her gaze dipping down to his neck, mouth upturned in a rigid smile. You might want to cover that up before your meeting with Aden. Should I expect to have to fend off the usual calls?

Damen ducked his head, abashed at the resignation in her voice. Chanel got stuck dealing with some of his more tenacious conquests. He always tried to be clear about what he was looking for in his lovers—something easy and fun and, most importantly, temporary. A few women had thought they could change his mind, but Damen never led them on. Once he realized they were deliberately misinterpreting things between them, he ended the brief…whatever it was. Eventually, they got the message.

Not this time. Didn't give her my number.

Chanel's offended hmph followed him to his office. Damen closed the door behind him with a grateful sigh. He didn't want to think any more about Ignatius Stormare or Chanel’s pseudo-parental disapproval. He had his own for that.

Damen wondered if he’d ever measure up. No matter how many clients he brought in or how many events ran successfully, he’d always be the person who'd gotten the job because of his friend’s charity.

He slid out of yesterday's shirt and opened a small closet that held everything he needed: a change of clothes, shoes, blazer, and toiletries. Damen had learned to always be prepared—a holdover from his time playing professional ball. Stripping quickly, he performed a whore's bath with baby wipes, dragged on deodorant, and slipped into fresh clothes. He set a reminder to bring in another set to replace this one.

A mirror hung on the inside of the closet door. Damen checked his appearance, spotting the hickey right away. That’s what Chanel had been looking at. Christ, had Ig seen it? He made sure his collar covered most of it. He had a day's growth of dark stubble on his chin and jaw, but otherwise, he looked fresh. He may not be tea with the Queen ready, but he was presentable enough for a business-casual office.

He remembered Ig's polished appearance and the way he’d scrutinized Damen's disheveled clothing when he'd arrived at work. Damen turned away from his reflection's frown to close the closet door. Ignatius Stormare managed to anger him with barely any effort. The man pissed him off by merely existing. No man was that perfect, and Damen’s need to provoke a human reaction increased with every forced interaction they had. Maybe once he had that, Damen would stop poking him.

He rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and abandoned his jacket on his chair, trying to shake off the melancholy mood. Satisfied that he was presentable, he settled into his chair and got to work.

###

Damen had finally managed to get through the fourth quarter budget projections for the sports accounts before lunch, even if doing so had given him a massive headache. Athena was traveling so she’d asked Damen to attend the meeting in her stead. Chanel had distilled all the relevant shit down for him into one easy-to-follow, color-coordinated spreadsheet, but it was still a pain in the ass to read and retain the information. He bet Ig had no problem with endless rows of numbers lined up like soldiers in some kind of godforsaken accounting army—it was probably how he spent a fun Saturday night.

He growled, pushing his chair away from his desk with a harsh shove. Damen couldn’t get Ig’s arrogant face out of his head. People liked Damen. He was a likable guy, able to charm practically anyone.

Yet Ig remained aloof. Damen had been working at Nyx for over a year now. He’d proven he wasn’t a flash-in-the-pan. Even so, Ig still wore that haughty expression, like he was too good to soil himself by being friends with Damen. Some days Damen could ignore it and some days—like today—it stuck in his craw.

The only one who ever seemed to melt Ig's frosty exterior was Aden, Ig's best, and possibly only, friend. Damen drew people to him as easily as breathing. He didn’t have many deep friendships, but he had lots of acquaintances, people he could grab a beer with or go to a movie or a club with. Ig behaved like the only way he'd get a friend was to build one out of dead body parts in his heavily fortified rec room.

Damen’s meeting reminder pinged at him. Gathering up his notes and laptop, Damen exited his office and made his way to the large conference room that separated the executive offices from those of the account managers. He was nearly ten minutes early, but Stormare had still beaten him there, ever-present coffee mug in hand. Ig nodded at him but didn’t speak as more people filed in.

Aden slid in with about thirty seconds to spare, taking his spot at the head of the table. He tapped his fingers idly on the table’s top, a bored look plastered on his pale face. Damen wondered if it was in Ig’s job description to kick the CEO under the table if he fell asleep during a board meeting. Considering everything else Ig already did for Aden, Damen wouldn’t be surprised.

The meeting started promptly on the hour because Ig would probably break out in hives if it began even a fraction of a second late. Damen listened with half an ear as every division went through their projections in detail. When it was his turn, he presented the fourth quarter Sports data, pleased to see that they were in line with previous years. It looked like they might even surpass last year’s final numbers by a significant margin. Barring any natural disasters, Sales and Sports should come out fine.

He paid close attention to Ig’s part of the presentation, specifically planned costs. Damen nearly groaned aloud when Ig’s projections were even higher than those of the Sports division.

Of course. Damen should have known they’d be.

Damen didn’t consider himself a competitive guy—at least no more than anyone else. But something inside him really wanted to beat Ig, just once. He didn’t care what it was in, he just wanted to win. One time. He needed it.

It would appear we’re also on target to make our annual charitable donation, Ig said to Aden as the meeting wound to its conclusion. I will prepare a list of front runners for you and Athena to look at.

Damen frowned. He didn’t know about the charity thing. Then again, he didn’t have much to do with the nitty gritty of allocation since he focused one-on-one with clients. Was he supposed to be familiar with it? Had he missed something important? His face flushed with the force of his irrational anger and anxiety.

Aden nodded and dismissed everyone, a satisfied smile on his face. Damen waited until everyone filtered out before asking, Charitable donation?

Ig nodded, not looking at him. That irritated Damen even further. How come you get to create the list of names?

Aden raised a dark eyebrow but said nothing. Damen got the impression he was waiting to see how Ig responded to Damen’s challenge. The little shit.

Ig drew himself to his full, offended height, haughty mouth pursed like a sour old lady’s. Are you insinuating that I might use this opportunity to further some personal agenda?

Damen wouldn’t have put it in so many words, but yeah, he kind of was. Ig always sounded like he’d swallowed a thesaurus and a Complete Works of Shakespeare. Why couldn’t he talk like an average person? That, combined with his British accent, made him come off more priggish than usual.

He shrugged as if this whole conversation wasn’t a big deal. Just curious, that’s all.

Ig adjusted his glasses, still wearing a pissy expression. Indeed. He began to pack up his things.

Damen rolled his eyes and forced the conversation back where he wanted it. Are you going to answer my question?

Mmmmmm? Ig turned to Damen as if surprised to find him still standing there. Damen balled his hands into fists behind his back. Apologies. Ig put one hand in his pocket, a sure sign he was going to launch into some super long explanation that Damen didn’t give two shits about.

We actually have quite the list of charitable organizations soliciting Nyx for donations. Our PR department collects them and then forwards the most promising prospects to me, along with their recommendations. My team researches those submitted to create a finalized list, which I then present to Aden and Athena for their final decision.

Can anyone recommend a charity? Damen had an idea or two for worthy causes that could do with some of Nyx’s largess. But if Ig was some snooty gatekeeper, he wondered if it was worth the trouble of suggesting them.

You have a suggestion? Ig half-turned his head so he was in profile, but Damen could still see his look of disdain. He ground his teeth together to keep angry words from spilling out of his mouth.

Maybe. Damen squared his body up with Ig’s, pulling his shoulders back. He didn’t quite loom over Ig, but it was close.

Ig didn’t seem phased in the slightest. Certainly, though it is a bit late in the year for us to properly vet your recommendations, Ig chided, sounding very much like a put-upon parent. I had no idea you’d be interested in such a thing since you’re usually so busy dining with your roster of potential clients. He spat the word clients with the same intonation as vermin.

Fury sparked inside Damen’s gut at the snide tone in Ig’s voice. Was this guy seriously calling him out? Fuck you, Mary Poppins. You got a problem with the way I do my job?

Not at all, just like you weren’t implying I somehow cheat Nyx out of funding, Damen. Ig’s posh syllables turned frosty with his anger. It would be a welcome change for you to actually use my given name. I’m not your baseball buddy with some ridiculous moniker.

Sure thing, Iggy, Damen snarled.

Ig paled, then reddened with anger. It was the first time Damen had ever gotten a reaction out of Stormare. Ig opened his mouth to retort, but Aden got there first, finally deciding it was time to step in. Enough! He slapped the table with the flat of his hand for emphasis.

Ig snapped his mouth shut so fast Damen thought he heard the man’s teeth clack together. He inclined his head to Aden in a wordless apology, and the two men shared a look that Damen didn’t understand. Athena had told Damen a little about Ig and Aden’s friendship. They were brothers in all but blood and would kill or die for each other.

Damen just slouched, trying not to seethe. He glared at Ig like he could burn a hole in the side of his annoying head before he noticed Ig’s hands were shaking.

He blinked as Aden stood. Damen watched as Ig removed his glasses and passed a hand over his eyes as if they pained him. Good. Stormare deserved a headache. Now he knew how Damen felt wading through all his bullshit.

You okay, Ig? Aden’s voice was soft, pitched low with concern. He wore a worried frown as he stared at his friend. Damen’s gaze bounced between the two of them, feeling like an unwelcome outsider.

Straightening, Ig replaced his glasses and gave Aden a shaky smile. Fine, Aden. I apologize for my unseemly outburst.

Accepted. Damen couldn't resist. He gave them both his best shit-eating grin.

"I was not speaking